


to find perfection in my pride

by nagatha_christie



Category: BBC Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Coming Out, Communication, Gay Pride, M/M, New Relationship Energy, Pride, Public Display of Affection, Softness, Tenderness, To Be Continued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 10:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18963127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagatha_christie/pseuds/nagatha_christie
Summary: It all goes a bit funny when Nick’s away from home, doesn't it.





	to find perfection in my pride

**Author's Note:**

> hello darlings! 
> 
> important note: this is part two of the smushie novel, so kindly [ read part one first!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17223089/chapters/40500173) <3
> 
> the title is from the paramore song, 'turn it off' so s/o to paramore and to my pals for all your help in The Process, it's invaluable xx

Being in airports has this odd little way of tipping Nick’s normal life sideways, making him shed his routines and rituals in the free-fall of travelling.

Nick's sitting with Mesh in a café at their Dubai stopover—typical enough—but they’ve reversed the usual roles. Nick is the one slaving away at his colouring pages, and _Mesh_ is filming him, giggling.

It all goes a bit funny when Nick’s away from home, doesn't it.

“You’re ruining my concentration,” Nick says as he hunts for the purple pencil on the sticky, cluttered Pret a Manger table. “Disrespectful, really.”

“Sorry,” Mesh says, a smile blatant in his voice. “Your process is inspirational.”

“Oh, I know that.” Nick looks down at his beautiful, inspirational farm drawing. He glances up at Mesh and his sneaky little smile. “Zooming in on my hands, are you?”

“Might be.” Mesh puts his phone down.

Nick sniffs. “You just fancy me for my body.”

“It’s quite a nice body to spend a week in Maldives staring at,” Mesh says. “I’d know.”

“Stop that.” Nick purses his lips, but he can't even front. He lets the melty, soppy smile take over his face.

“Nope,” Mesh says, grinning. He reaches across the table for Nick’s hand.

Nick feels a pleased little warmth in his belly at the attention, squeezing Mesh’s hand back.

“I’m looking rough today,” Nick admits, running his other hand through his hair. As the old saying goes, one man's unwashed bedhead is another man's airport chic.

“Reckon you’re stunting in that Gucci jumper, though," Mesh says. "You look cosy AF, and I'm kind of jealous.”

“You can borrow it, you know." Nick’s pretty sure Mesh is _already_ wearing an old jumper of his he’d found. He looks cuter in it than Nick did. No surprise there.

“I was going to anyway.” Mesh smiles at him—beams, really.

Nick drops Mesh's gaze and gently takes his hand back, reaching for his drawing.

“What do you think?” Nick holds it up. “Reckon I’ll submit it to Royal Academy when I get back.”

“Definitely.” Mesh nods. “Very least, it’d go great on the fridge. Quite cheery.”

Nick frowns. “That’s a downgrade, the fridge.”

“Good to have a back-up plan,” Mesh says, shrugging. “I do like it, though.”

“Well, _thank_ you, Meshach.” Nick glows. “I think it’s quite good.”

“One of your best, probably,” Mesh says.

Nick looks over Mesh’s shoulder and says, “Hey, do you see Elena and Rita?”

“Why, you want their opinion, too?” Mesh says.

 _“No,_ you’re the art critic. We know.” Nick rolls his eyes. “Was just wondering if they’re back from duty-free yet. S’been a while.”

Mesh glances around. “Reckon they’ll be back soon.”

“Yeah, in an hour… or three.” Nick laughs.

“Love how we get off the plane and immediately lose half our crew.” Mesh frowns.

Nick goes soft at _we_ and _our,_ the soppiness clear on his face. He's quite emotional these days—blame it on Mercury retrograde, or lack of sleep, or maybe just being in love.

“They’re probably off with a bottle of champagne in the one smoking area of this entire city.” Mesh frowns. He always makes stropping look strange—it doesn’t quite suit him. He is, in Nick’s humble view, too lovely to strop properly. Though he does try.

“Bit jealous, are we?” Nick says.

“Yeah, m’sorry,” Mesh says. “Cigarette panic is _real.”_

“We can find some champagne, if you want.”

“I know.” Mesh shakes his head. “Just want a smoke, really.”

“You gonna be alright?” Nick says. “Gonna make it through alive?”

“I think I’ll be alright.” Mesh bites his lip past a smile. “Might need some comfort in this trying time, though.”

Mesh leans over the table to kiss Nick, and Nick freezes up.

Nick backs away, putting his hand on Mesh’s arm instead. "Mm—Maybe not the best idea."

“Snogging is always the best idea.” Mesh looks around the empty café. “No one's even looking."

“Yeah, but.” Nick fidgets, glancing across the walkway to the other store. He’s got a gut feeling there are paparazzi around—always seems to be, when he’s out with Rita. Maybe a bit paranoid, but he can’t help it. He’s been caught off-guard enough times. “Still in public.”

“We’re _out_ now, yeah?” Mesh sits back, crossing his arms. “You’re my boyfriend—we should be able to kiss whenever we want.”

“This is Dubai, though—not London.” Nick frowns. “They’re not always keen on people who are different. Especially people different like us.”

“Flamers, you mean.” Mesh narrows his eyes, trying to get a rise out of him.

Nick shrugs past the sting and lowers his voice. “Yeah, you could say."

“Isn’t this the _point_ of being properly out, though?” Mesh says. “Not having to look over our shoulders all the time.”

“Yeah, but.” Nick bites his lip. "I've seen things—there are headlines, front page—loads of things that have happened here. Horrible things they might not even think of as horrible."

“That’s got nothing to do with us. Things are different. It’s not like it was when you were coming up. So much more progressive now.”

 _“So_ many years ago, is that it? Like I’m a bloody dinosaur. Centuries and _centuries—”_

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” Mesh rolls his eyes.

Nick bites his lip, his heart pounding in his ears. He stares at Mesh like he’s staring over the ledge of a cliff—because what Mesh doesn’t know is it’s not so far away, and not so long ago. Pete, he would make his snide little comments, mask his criticisms as jokes, and far as Nick knew, no one said owt about it. It was just Pete, just having a laugh. Nick never really confronted him, either. Confrontation isn’t his way, just as open-mindedness was never Pete’s way.

What stung the most was the comparisons, always so _personal_ —why couldn’t he be more like Andy and Jane, living a more tame, responsible, respectable, _heterosexual_ life. And Nick loves his siblings to pieces… but domestic bliss has never found them, not even close. And they’d admit it, too. They’d each tried and failed, over and over, sometimes spectacularly, and Nick, well—Nick avoided failing by never tapping in.

“Grab a paper, Mesh, it’s right over there. You’ll see.”

“I don’t need the bloody _Sun_ to tell me if I can kiss you.” Mesh scoffs. "You shouldn't need, either. Not if you’re in this with me, full on."

“I said I was in this full-on, and I meant it, I—” Nick stops as his eyes catch on Rita and Elena heading towards them.

Rita is vibrant, as per, unmistakable in her muddle of shuffling handbags, clicking high heels, and honking laughter.

“Hey, babes,” Nick calls, deliberately nonchalant, waving her over. Rita's quite good at lightening a mood.

Rita shouts across the café. "Come and help me, Grim—We've done a _big_ shop."

"Sorry, what?" Nick cups his ear. "Speak up, I don't think the entire airport heard you."

Rita rolls her eyes and grins as she hobbles over with six glossy shopping bags on each arm.

Elena’s got a more modest four bags, but she's nearly bowled over by the weight of them.

"Oof." Rita sets all her bags down, smooths her honey-blonde curls, gone frizzy with exertion. " _Told_ you we did a big shop."

"What did you _get_?" Mesh asks. He drums his fingers on his leg, like he's impatient to have a poke around their bags. He's polite, though—Nick isn't.

(Nick and Rita passed polite within ten seconds of first meeting each other. Went straight to the teasing and the fart jokes, and never looked back.)

"More like, what _didn't_ they get, right?" Nick raises his eyebrows, trying to forge a little truce with Mesh.

Mesh won't look at him. It hurts more than Nick wants to admit.

"Cleared out Armani and Cartier." Elena waves her hand dismissively, like having a pop star in the family is old news.

"Casual day." Rita shrugs.

“Terminal three is a ghost town now, is it?” Mesh says.

"Not quite bought them out, but nearly did.” Elena laughs, clutching her stomach. She pats Rita’s shoulder. “Had to rein this one in."

“Oh, I know.” Nick laughs weakly; looking closer, there’s something else behind Elena’s smile.

Keeps it light, Elena does, but there are occasional downsides to the fame. In Maldives, he'd had a long chat with her, peeked behind the velvet curtain to the heartbreak, and criticism, and loneliness. She and Rita are quite close, more like best friends than sisters, but no denying things have been different since Rita’s career blew up. Maybe not bad-different, but still … different.

"Thought 2019 was your year of no regrets, Rita," Nick says, going right into his flawless imitation. "So tired of holding back, babe, gonna liberate myself in the new year, YOLO, no more FOMO for me—Aye, Grimmy, write that down, yeah? Found myself a new hook, yeah? Gonna be _sick,_ babe, gonna be a banger. Whole year's gonna be the banger year of my life."

"You got it word for word." Elena laughs.

"It's only the useless things I remember." Nick shrugs. "Work meetings—Nope. Never. But Rita when she's pissed? Every word."

"Actually spot-on." Mesh laughs.

“I don’t remember any of that.” Rita laughs. She plops down in Nick's lap and sighs, weary from her jet-setting. "I _would_ have gone more shops, but Elena blagged my MasterCard, the one with no limits."

"Dead rude." Nick laughs. He grips Rita round the waist to keep her steady. "Hey, what time is boarding? We should probably find out.”

Rita glances at her watches. She has three of them. "An hour or so till takeoff—should maybe get going, yeah."

Rita jumps off Nick's lap and pulls him to his feet. While she's there, she gives him a quick cuddle, squeezing him round the waist for a few seconds before letting him go.

Nick doesn't even have time to relax into it, struck by how his mates always seem to know when he needs a little extra attention.

"Here, I'll grab these two," Nick says, grabbing one of Rita's suitcases and a satin gym bag. He's winded immediately—Rita must have packed a hundred hot pink bowling balls or something, she’s a bloody caricature of herself. He reckons he can hack it, though, with just his own backpack on him and all their other luggage checked in.

The four of them head out to the walkway, peering at the flashing screens for their new gate number.

The paparazzi descend on them, emerging out of nowhere with a dozen voices calling their names as the flashbulbs begin.

As the sounds melt together, Nick has that familiar deer-in-headlights feeling, only about fifty times worse. His throat gets tight and panicky, anxiety gripping him.

"Walk behind me," Nick says, instinctively putting his arm out and herding Mesh behind him for security.

"No, I won't," Mesh says, an edge to his voice as he pushes Nick's arm away and keeps up with his long strides. He grabs Nick's hand, right there in front of the blinding flashbulbs, and then he has the bloody nerve to _wave_ at the paps, like he's the Duchess on her bloody wedding day.

Nick chokes out a laugh, the only thing he can do sometimes, when there’s a complicated knot of emotions in his gut. Surprise is clear on his face, alongside his red-flushed anger and the mounting panic behind his mask.

It only lasts a few seconds, but it feels like ages to endure, every second painful before the paparazzi finally ebbs away. He’s vexed at them as well as Mesh—annoyed to think they have the right to march right in to his holiday-blissed bubble of happiness.

"What _was_ that?" Nick says, dropping Mesh's hand. He shakes his head. "Sometimes you just don't _think,_ Mesh."

"No, I _was_ thinking—I’m not a div," Mesh says. "Thought it through, and made a choice. Ought to try it."

Mesh turns his back and gets in line. Rita and Elena huff over, trailing behind them and chattering, oblivious.

Nick doesn't feel resentful of Rita as he grips her heavy satin gym bag tighter, unwilling to hand her things over to the overeager attendant. There's something kind of sweet and selfless about wanting to bear the burden for Rita. Nick likes thinking of himself as a person who does things like that—puts himself out there for the ones he loves.

Some of Nick's anger lifts, the firm suffocating weight on his chest getting a bit lighter.

Nick feels a glimmer of admiration at Mesh's sheer arrogance. Even angry, he can't help but respect Mesh's nerve. The guts he's got—it's kind of astounding. In an instant, he'd gone and done what it took Nick thirty-some years to do.

Right there in front of everybody, out and been proud, regardless of the consequences. And there's something to be said for that, even Nick can admit.

                                                                                                                         --

Nick stirs in his plane seat, his arms cramped. He’d dosed off with his arms crossed across his chest, annoyed even in his sleep. Mesh is still sleeping, his head heavy on Nick’s shoulder.

Nick’s knee joints crack in a mildly unsettling way when he stretches his legs. First class or not, planes kind of suck. He sits back in his chair and spreads his knees as much as he can, trying to offset the tension. If Mesh was awake, _he’d_ be able to counsel Nick on the best plane-stretching strategies. He's good like that.

Nick softens and turns toward Mesh, kissing the crown of his head.

“Hey,” Mesh says, rubbing his eyes. Soft and sleepy, like it’s all forgiven. “Are we there yet?”

“Tragically, no,” Nick says. “Just another, oh, forty hours.”

Mesh groans. “It’s starting to feel like I’ve moved in here.”

“This is your home now—Welcome, dear.”

“Stop,” Mesh says, laughing. “Don’t even joke.”

“Our section really is looking like your flat, with the shoes everywhere, and that. Hordes of books and pillows. How many pillows does one man need?”

“You’re right, actually.” Mesh looks around. He leans forward, placing his shoes side by side neatly.

“Oh, my god…” Nick says. “Are you on housekeeping crew for this plane, Meshach?”

“I’m _noticing_ it.” Mesh stacks up some books and tucks some detritus into his saddle bag.

“Leave it be,” Nick says with a wave of his hand. “Still a while yet. You might need a hundred empty pretzel packets later.”

“Rude,” Mesh says, settling back in. He hooks his arm through Nick’s and kisses his cheek. “Did you sleep?”

Nick wrinkles his nose. “Hardly. Still knackered.”

“Aww.” Mesh smooths Nick’s hair with his other hand. “Me, too.”

Nick leans in and kisses Mesh. It feels natural, like they’re home.

“Not worried now, are you?” Mesh says.

Mesh’s tone is light, but Nick feels his shoulders tense up.

“Everyone’s either sleeping, or on their iPads,” Nick says. “Or both, simultaneously.”

“Oh. You’ve already checked.”

“No, not this time.” Nick’s lips press into a hard line. “But s’just what people do on planes, isn’t it.”

Mesh’s brows furrows. “You’re cross with me, aren’t you.”

“I’m not cross. Not, um, not cross, exactly.” Nick rubs his forehead. “I just wish we’d talked about it more before—you know, the paps caught wind.”

Mesh nods. He takes a breath before he says, “But we’re _out,_ though. We had the best, gayest time in Maldives with Rita.”

“We really bloody did,” Nick says, cracking a smile. “But… Maldives isn’t Dubai, isn’t London, even. Island was isolated—there weren’t paps lurking there. There weren’t a lot of people there, full stop.”

“It’s a different time now,” Mesh repeats. “It’s safer now. To be together and not hide it.”

“It’s safer than ten years ago, yeah, but it’s not… Things still happen, you know? All the time. Teenagers get bullied, grown men get roughed up, or worse.”

“Yeah,” Mesh says softly. “A lot of bad things still happen. You’re right there. But, I just—I don’t want to hide. I’m so tired of hiding parts of myself.”

Nick meets Mesh’s eyes, and on his face he sees the hurt of a person much older than twenty-two, a whole lifetime of scars in the dark circles under Mesh’s eyes.

“The pride you have, I admire it, I do.” Nick holds his gaze. “How you want everybody to see us. How secure you are with yourself. You know who you are and you want everybody to know, too. All that, it’s what made me fall for you, if we’re being honest.”

“You, Nicholas, are a melt.” Mesh leans in and kisses him, different this time—holding Nick’s face and pressing against him fiercely. _”Such_ a melt.”

Nick pulls away. “I just don’t know if I’m there yet. I want to be—but I’m not there.”

“And that’s alright.” Mesh softens. “It really is alright. But I think you maybe care too much what people think.”

“Maybe you should care more,” Nick says. “Just a bit.”

“I’m gay, I’m black, and I’ve been a ballet dancer since I was thirteen.” Mesh laughs, like it’s nothing. “Reckon I got this far caring what people think?”

Nick laughs, too. “That’s fair.”

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.” Mesh knocks his knee against Nick’s softly.

“No, love. You didn’t.” Nick sighs. “I just want us to be able to control the narrative.”

“You’re sounding a bit Taylor Swift now.” Mesh laughs. “Swifty three years ago, anyway.”

“I don’t want to be out of the narrative, though,” Nick says. “I _want_ there to be articles. I want to be seen with you. But I want to write the headlines.”

“You _can’t,_ though. You can try, but like—at the end of the day, yeah, we still have to be us.”

Nick nods. “You’re right.”

“And we know how real this is.” Mesh tilts his head, still smiling. “Don’t we?”

“Dead real.” Nick grins.

“There it is.” Mesh laughs, and Nick goes all soft inside.

Who knew this was all it would take to melt Nick's beloved cynicism—just a week away on an island, coupled with a dozen Mai Tais and loads of time devoted solely to shagging.

The cocktails ended up more juice than booze, and the sex more snogging than anything else—and maybe that's where the romantic in Nick runs deepest. Not needing to chase the edge, or the endorphins, or the rush. The rush just _being there_ in the moments spent with Mesh, who's got a sentimental heart to match his.

Nick never thought he'd be like this—sweet talk, real talk, kissy kissy all the time. But he wouldn't trade it in, not for all the safety and security in the world.

For once, the risk of love feels better than playing it safe.

**Author's Note:**

> send me love on [ tumblr,](https://misowithlizo.tumblr.com/post/185135602991) i'm all ears, lovebugs


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